Waking Up
by CheyanneChika
Summary: Phil Coulson wakes up alone on the hellicarrier with no memory of how he got there. In fact, the last thing he remembers Barton complaining about Tesseract duty. His first desire is to figure out what's happened to everyone else. AU, Clint/Coulson pairing. Two-shot
1. Chapter 1

**I'm branching out into the wonderful Slash fiction. I started with only canon pairings, then I went with the easy ones, like Destiel, and Johnlock. Now I have a problem, and it has culminated in this story and several others that I will be writing in the future, in addition to my incomplete yaoi fics. For now, though, enjoy.**

**Chapter One**

Phil opened his eyes to the ceiling of Medical. The first thing he recognized was that this was the helicarrier's Medical. What the hell was he doing on the helicarrier? He looked to the left and there was an empty chair. No Clint, no Natasha, perfect. What happened to him? He started to sit up and his chest twinged. Well clearly something happened that he couldn't remember.

He sighed and reached with the arm not covered in IV needles to tug down the front of his hospital gown. "Damn," he whispered, staring at a dark red mass of scar tissue. "That's not good."

His heart rate ratcheted up a few notches and a doctor he didn't immediately recognize entered his room. "Hello, agent. How are you feeling?"

"Perfectly fine," he grumbled. "Why am I on the helicarrier?"

The doctor stiffened. "What's the last thing you remember, agent?"

Coulson frowned. "I was talking to Agent Barton on the phone. He was bored of babysitting the Tesseract." He strained to remember anything else as he had to be missing something important. "Why am I on the helicarrier?"

The doctor hesitated. "I…I'm afraid I'm going to have to make a few phone calls of my own. Excuse me." He disappeared.

"Well that's not suspicious," Phil muttered. He pushed up and managed to sit gingerly. Then he swung his feet over the side of the bed. His muscles screamed from disuse, but he powered through. On his feet, he wobbled, slightly, trying to regain his balance and adjust to the slight rocking motion that told him the carrier was in the water and not hovering ten thousand feet in the air. He noted his clothes in a bag under the empty chair and hobbled to them, dragging his IV pole with him. Bending proved to be an impossibility and he had to catch the bag with his bare foot to drag it out. His white shirt was speared through the middle and stained heavily with blackened and dried blood that flaked as the fabric shifted. He sighed, willing to bet that his suit was similarly ruined.

Maybe he should just go back to bed. He was already feeling tired and he wondered how long he'd been out. Long enough for Barton to have been banished from his side. But no. He was out of the city, watching the "Glow Box of Doom," as he colorfully referred to it. He wondered if Tony Stark had made that up and it just stuck.

Maybe the injury wasn't as bad as it looked. Clint would've come back, orders be damned, if his husband was hurt badly enough to merit it. The flipside of that lovely scenario was that he'd been unconscious so long that Clint had come and been forced to go home.

"Agent, you have to return to bed," a nurse said, coming in.

Coulson nodded and returned. "Can I have my phone?"

"I'm afraid not," she replied.

Coulson sighed and put on a bland expression. "Very well." He shuffled forward and one of his legs gave out. He staggered and fell against the nurse, who caught him expertly and slowed his descent to the floor. Then she helped him up as he apologized and left.

Settled once more, he drew her phone from under the sheets and ran his thumb over the bottom to unlock the screen. He punched in Clint's number and waited. It rang until his husband's voice said, "Clint Barton, leave a message," followed by the robotic female voice that explained what a phone message was. After the tone, Phil said, "It's me. Just wanted to let you know I'm awake. Call me when you get this. I may not still have this phone though. I had to steal it from a nurse. I'm on the carrier if you don't know yet. Things are pretty blurry at the moment. You'll have to tell me what I missed. Love you."

He hung up and waited.

…

Three days of non-answers, no Clint, no Natasha and no Fury, Hill or Sitwell and, after twenty-four hours, no phone later, Coulson had had enough. He was getting stronger each day and today, he was going to escape. He could stand, walk and bend and that had to be enough. He waited until the doctor left for the final time that day and got up. Now that he was walking, the medical staff had gifted him with soft, cotton pants and a T-shirt. He looked at the vent situated beside the chair and thanked Clint for insisting he learn the ventilation layout of both HQ and the carrier.

Phil quickly unhooked the metal grate and made his way in. He couldn't remember everything of the layout, but he had made a mental note to memorize the route from medical to Clint's bunk in case the man got stuck on the way there. He dropped into the barracks and had to sit on Clint's bed for a moment. That had been very unpleasant and he realized that Clint must truly despise Medical if he was willing to make that journey while severely injured over and over again.

He flopped down and sank into the pillow filled with Clint's scent. Phil closed his eyes and rested there for a moment. He woke up to find twelve hours had passed according to the digital clock beside him. Well, it seemed he'd managed to successfully hide. Now he needed to escape. He got up and shuffled to the small closet, drawing out Clint's tactical gear. He dressed and grimaced at how loosely the gear fit. It was skin tight on Clint and usually fit a touch loosely on his husband but this was stupid skinny. He sighed and grabbed a ball cap and sunglasses to hide his face. No one would look twice at him.

And no one did. He hid a smile under his bland expression as he walked out onto the carrier's deck. He looked around and tried to decide how to get off of it. A quinjet was a bit ostentatious, but a helicopter wasn't much better. It was, however, safer to land one in the city, and one was just landing as he looked out over the deck. He sighed and stepped up to it as the rotors slowed and several people emerged. They passed him by without a glance and he stepped in. "Take me to Manhattan," he yelled, reaching for headphones.

"Anywhere in particular, sir?" the pilot asked.

"Upper East Side. Any public building that will allow us to land."

"Yes, sir," he replied and the rotors picked up their pace. They lifted off and Phil noted several people running for the copter, but they were gone. "Agent, the carrier is requesting that I return."

"Don't," Phil replied. "It's a war game. I'm pretending to be Agent Barton escaping Medical."

The pilot grinned. "I never get to be on the knowledgeable end of need-to-know. War games are awesome."

"Enjoy it while you can," Phil replied, watching as the skyscrapers of New York got bigger.

…

The trek from the very high-end, top floor restaurant that allowed him to land to his and Clint's apartment in the predawn light was long and exhausting and…heartrending. Their entire apartment building—and most of the city block—was gone. There was nothing but a pile of rubble that was cordoned off by police tape. He took two hasty steps back, his heart pounding. What the hell had he missed?

He needed to get to their bolt hole. Clint had to be there. He couldn't imagine that Clint had been in the building when it was destroyed. Clint couldn't be dead. He thought back to the unreturned voicemail and hoped against hope that he had called back after the nurse had retrieved her phone on the second day and chastised him.

Their bolt hole, a one bedroom in Chelsea was a long way off and he didn't have any money. He sighed and headed for his bank, twelve blocks away.

It was exhausting. He stopped at a newspaper kiosk and looked down at the headlines. He stopped dead. Evidently, aliens had attacked New York while he'd been unconscious. "Hey, Phil, haven't seen you in a while." Phil looked over at the owner of the stand. He was old and more often than not had his daughter helping him. "I was worried you'd been in the building when it collapsed and Clint was wandering around looking like death warmed over. I tried to talk to him but he took off."

"I wasn't there," Phil said slowly. "I've been out of the country." Lies rolled off his tongue all too easily these days.

"Right. Well, he stopped by again, said if Natasha or anyone came by, he was going to Stark Tower."

"Stark Tower?" Phil asked, incredulously.

The newsman snorted. "I know. But that's what happens when you become an Avenger."

Phil decided not to question that. "Can I snag a paper? I don't have any money on me, but I'm heading for the bank."

The other man nodded. "I know you're good for it," he said with a smile.

Phil picked up the _New York Times_ and continued on to the bank. It was open by the time his flagging pace brought him up the marble steps.

As it transpired, so many people had lost their photo IDs and information in the attack—the Chitauri Invasion—that as long as he could recite every account he and Barton shared and answered all the security questions, they were willing to give him a few hundred bucks to tide him over until he could get new copies of everything. Outside, he hailed a cab and directed it back to the paper stand, paid for his paper and then continued on to Stark Tower. He began to read and squint at grainy photos from the battle and its cleanup. He quickly identified Romanoff and Clint and Captain America in one, Stark and Banner in another. He smiled. Clint really had done what Phil hoped he would. He was part of Phil's dream, well other than the marriage dream, the one where the Avengers Initiative actually worked.

**To Be Continued...**

**So yeah, I wrote this because I was frustrated with Winter Soldier and with the current events of Agents of SHIELD. Ergo, this is a canon divergence from the Avengers. Certain aspects of AoS (i.e. Coulson's revival) are the same.**

**Anyway, please review, I'm eagerly awaiting your thoughts.**


	2. Chapter 2

**Disclaimer: I own nothing and I sincerely apologize for the lateness of this second part. I wrote it forever ago and forgot about it. Blame issues with my meds and memory.**

**Chapter Two**

He broke into Stark Tower as easily as before, but this time, asked to be taken to Agent Barton's rooms.

JARVIS complied without fuss, his protocols having been overridden and he discovered that Clint actually had an entire floor to himself. Phil crept along, taking it in. Except for a few purple touches here and there, the rooms were barren of anything that was in Clint's taste.

There were two empty bedrooms, an office and a long lane that ran from one end of the floor to the other for archery practice. Nice. The bathroom was gorgeous too and the living room and kitchen were the only rooms he'd found that actually look lived in. Clint always baked when he was stressed and Phil could see traces of flour on the countertops. He sighed and started for the room furthest from the elevator. He opened the door to reveal a large bed with a bright purple duvet, which he could see despite the darkness of the room. Clint was there. He could see the lump, smell his slight cologne.

Phil smiled and crept inside. He shucked his—Clint's—tac gear, leaving only the T-shirt and boxer briefs, and nudged it into a corner. Then he lifted the covers and crawled in beside his husband, ignoring the pain of the twin scars being stretched as he settled. The moment their hands touched, Clint's spun and gripped Phil's tightly. It was hot and sweaty but Phil didn't care. He lifted it and pressed a kiss to it in the grey dawn that peeked through the venetian blinds. Clint's eyes opened and he stared at Phil with sleepy eyes. "Hey, you found me. I didn't think you would."

"Of course I did." Phil leaned in and pressed a kiss to his lips. "I love you. I'll always find you."

"I love you too," Clint murmured. "I miss you so much."

"Miss me in present tense? But I'm right here."

Clint sighed. "Hallucinations don't count, my love."

That phrasing, the gently spoken endearment, pulled Phil up short. "You think I'm a hallucination?"

"Well, you've been dead for three months. I almost turned down a floor here 'cause I thought you might stop coming to visit once I left the Barracks." He smiled a bit raggedly and rolled onto his back. "Not that you should visit me. I don't deserve to see you again after what I did."

"What you did…last time I checked, you were an Avenger. I knew you would do it, even when Fury said, and I quote, Strike Team Delta is not allowed to join the Avengers. They need to stay anonymous. I told him you were perfect for the team, Natasha too. And I was right."

Clint snorted. "You're the sweetest man I know," he murmured, kissing Phil again before rolling over to look at the ceiling, their hands still clenched. "I miss you so damn much. I hate your being dead." He sniffed and Phil's heart stuttered. "I hate it! Please come back to me."

"I'm here," Phil whispered, moving closer and clutching at Clint's arm. "I'm here and I'm not dead and I _love_ you."

Clint looked back at him. "This is a good dream," he whispered. Then a silly, slap happy smile graced his lips. "Can we make it better?"

"This isn't a dr—" That was as far as he got before Clint was on top of him. He leaned down and kissed the older man passionately, their hips grinding furiously against each other. Their tongues danced ferociously and Phil couldn't bring himself to make them stop, even as his chest wrenched angrily.

Then the door was flung open and the lights flashed on and Tony in full Iron Man get-up stormed in. "Hawkeye, JARVIS told me someone overrode his protocols to break…in…" He stared openly at Clint and Phil under Clint's covers. "Oh, I see."

"You see…You see?!" Clint yelped, looking down at Coulson. "You can see him?"

"The dead agent you're currently humping? Yeah. I see him."

"For the last time," Coulson snapped, trying to regain his patience. "I am not dead. Why do you keep saying that?"

"Because you did die?" Stark asked, eyebrows raised. "Loki stabbed you in the chest after you went after him on your own."

"What?" Phil sat up and Clint rolled off him. He wanted to ask when the hell Loki had come back from _also _supposedly being dead, but he had to prioritize. "Why the hell would I do that?"

"You don't remember?" Tony looked between the two of them. "Well, up until this moment, that was an answer I really wanted too, but now I'm willing to bet that it was because Loki kidnapped and brainwashed your boyfriend and then forced him to lead the attack on the helicarrier."

"What?" Phil asked again, looking horrified as he turned to Clint. "What is he…" He trailed off as pain erupted in his prefrontal cortex and memories swamped him. Clint being compromised, meeting Captain America properly on the quinjet, the helicarrier, Loki, Thor trapped in the Hulk's containment cell, the Phase Two weapon, the desperation to see Clint again, to save him from Loki. Then pain, lots and lots of pain.

When the current pain receded, he blinked a couple of times and looked at Clint, who was gripping his shoulder tightly and looking scared. "Love, I'm sorry. I woke up three days ago. The first thing I did was steal a phone to call you, but you didn't call back. Has it really been three months?" He realized that he hadn't actually checked the date on the paper, or on his stolen phone for that matter. What was wrong with him?

"That's my fault, actually," Stark said. "I was trying to make it better and it caught fire."

But he knew, Phil realized, completely ignoring Tony. He hadn't wanted to know how long he'd been gone. Didn't want to think about what it would mean for Clint and Natasha both to be absent from his side. "I remember now," he grumbled. "Everything. I'm so sorry."

"Sorry about what?" Clint asked. "I'm the one who got caught by Loki and ultimately got you killed."

"I'm not dead. I'm not. Who told you I was?"

"Fury," Tony griped.

Before anyone could say anything else, there was a loud thumping and Steve Rogers skidded into the room, in full Captain America regalia. Then he ripped off his mask and looked balefully at the two men in bed. "What's going on?" he asked. "Stark said there was an emergency." Then squinted at the bed and said, "Coulson? Is that really you?"

"Yes," Phil groused. "And I'd like to get some sleep…with my husband."

"Or get laid," Tony put in. The words sunk in and his eyes widened. "Wait, _husband_?"

"Mr. Stark!"

Tony raised his hands in surrender. "Fine, I'm going. Come on, Cap." He stalked out.

"Uh…glad you're back," Rogers said before hastily following the other man.

"What, no Natasha?" Phil asked half-heartedly.

"She's on a mission. Steve and Tony are the only ones in the tower apart from me. And now you." He turned his whole body to face his husband. "Is this real? Are you really real?"

Phil gave him a soft smile, one so rarely seen that Clint had to smile in return. "I'm really real and I really love you."

"You're not dead?"

"I'm not dead," Phil confirmed.

"Oh thank god," Clint whispered, collapsing on to his husband's shoulder. If Phil's shoulder was damp afterwards, they never mentioned it again. "I love you."

"Shh, I know. I love you too." He pressed a kiss to Clint's temple. "I love you." It was probably the most times they'd ever said that to each other, and that included their wedding night in Canada, the moment it was legalized and they could fudge the paperwork in '05.

"Can I kiss you?" Clint asked.

"Didn't you do that already?" Phil asked.

"Yes, but that was when I thought you were dead. So can I please kiss you?"

"You don't have to ask." Clint nodded and leaned to press their lips very gently together. He pulled back and stared into Phil's eyes.

Then they kissed again and Clint knew that, somehow, everything would be alright.

**The End.**

**Alright, that's it, please let me know what you think. Reviews are love and thanks for reading.**


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